


between two points

by ghastly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghastly/pseuds/ghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a young artist falls for her muse. Humanstuck AU featuring Kanaya as a fashion student and Rose as a model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. early morning children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very introductory chapter  
> 

You wake up to the sound of thunder at three in the morning. It's not exactly dark out, not pitch black, anyway; the heavy rain tinges the sky with color, leaving it somewhere between Palatinate purple and byzantium, and the shade strikes you as lovely enough to almost make up for the lack of stars.

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and pretty things have always fascinated you.

The wooden floor creaks beneath your feet as you try and make your way quietly to the kitchen. Not that you'd need to be so quiet, mind you, seeing as your roommate could probably sleep through several earthquakes in rapid sucession without so much as ceasing to snore, but, well, it's only polite, really. Your tea box smells _heavenly_ to your sleep deprived senses, warm and spicy and fresh all at once, and while the sensible part of you thinks you really should get something soothing to get you back in bed - maybe something with Valerian root, you like Valerian root - the realistic part of you knows you're not sleeping anymore and just grabs the Rooibos.

Tea reminds you of your mother, a bit. You don't look much like her, taller and darker than she ever was, but you always felt exactly like her when you'd both stop for oolong and cookies in that patch of grass under the yellowwood after weeding the flower beds. You've been told you have her eyes, too, but that's bullshit.

God, but you need to sleep. You always get restless when it rains, and it really doesn't help that you have a Big Huge Project coming up. Capitals and all, yes. You don't yet know exactly what the Big Huge Project _is_ , seeing as your professor refused to give you even a general concept beforehand, but you do know it's worth about sixty percent of your grade for the semester, so. Fashion school has a tendency to do this cute thing where half of the year is spent without absolutely anything to do and the other half is spent in a frenzied despair of sketch boards and deadlines.

It's almost sunrise by now, pale gray light barely reaching the windowsill, and you hum to yourself while rinsing the red out of your teacup. Fortunately for you, "frenzied despair" is little more than an abstract concept in your mind. You _thrive_ under pressure - you eat deadlines for _breakfast_ \- and you get ready for the day wishing wistfully you were a bit less terrible of a liar.

\-------------

She wakes up at five-thirty, precisely five-thirty in the morning, and the heavy rain hitting the windows covers the sound of her tiptoeing footsteps entirely; in fact, there is a whole ballerina routine in the way she walks, from the tightly locked shoulders to the arches of her calves, precise and smooth from practice. The sky is some dirty shade of purple, not unlike the center of a large bruise, and she stares at the morning lights seeping through the clouds with half a smile.

Her name is Rose Lalonde, and she is your project.

You will meet her for the first time in a few hours, when that very same half smile will leave you so entranced you will fail to respond to her charming introduction with any semblance grace. She will laugh, violet eyes crinkling, you will get flustered and pretend to busy yourself with whatever you can get your hands on. You will think she's as pale and cold as the morning had been, so much so the warmth of her hand on your arm will startle you.

But that is in the future. In the present, she stretches gracefully, wraps her robe tighter around herself, and walks softly back into her room.


	2. talk of flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first meetings and first impressions.

She is some five inches shorter than you, bone structure small and sharp, eyelashes so pale they're see-through, and your first thought is that she looks like an impressionist painting - wispy and bright and insubstantial. You try and hide your surprise with moderate success when your professor introduces her as your model. It's not that she doesn't look the part, height notwithstanding, but then again it kind of _is_ , because she's pretty and slight but she isn't a blank canvas like the models you're used to.

Oh, but that sounded so very rude (even in your own head, even if it's the truth). You've never had problems with any of your previous models, far from it. They were all of them beautiful and pliant, wearing whatever you designed exactly as you expected they would. Being a blank canvas is quite a commendable feature in regards of fashion models, really, as that gives them range to better embody different concepts a designer might have with chameleonic ease.

And then there's her. Black makeup and clothes on white skin and hair, sharp smile, sharper eyes. She sits next to you while you're still busy comparing her to works of art like a complete moron - seriously, what even is up with that, _seriously_ \- and her voice is not exactly deep but rather low.

"I had hopes to find a less commonplace way to ask for your name than to mention you have me at a disadvantage, seeing as you know mine, but such hopes proved entirely futile. As of now, I simply hope my honesty is enough to prompt you to still humor me."

She smiles. That is not to say she flashed you a polite smile after finishing her rather verbose introduction, but rather that smiling seems to be a consistent characteristic of her features, moreso in her eyes than in her lips. No, not smiling, smirking. You suddenly feel a lot like Alice first meeting the Cheshire Cat.

It occurs to you she might have asked you a question.

"Pardon?"

Her laughter is almost silent, rapid exhalations with but a hint of timbre, and she presses her black tinted lips as if to trap the sound completely. You can actually feel your skin heating up, and you take comfort in the knowledge that your high amounts of melanin should cover that up pretty well.

"I'm sorry, that was just an incredibly garrulous way to ask for your name."

"Oh." You knew that. Rather, you would have known that hadn't you been so transfixed by her whole color palette, white on black with the barest hint of color like Van Gogh's Almond Blossoms. "Oh, right. My name is Kanaya. Kanaya Maryam."

"Kanaya," She repeats, and then once more. "Kanaya. It's very lovely. Very fitting, as well. Arabic?"

"Sanskrit. Or would be, at any rate, had it been spelled properly. As it is, it doesn't mean anything in particular."

"Does that bother you?"

It sounds genuinely curious, and you have to stop for a second. You want to say she is a very interesting girl, but that wouldn't be the full extent of it. She is... well, she is very intense, for sure, what with her violet eyes that have yet to leave yours, and clever with her words in a way that leaves you a bit lightheaded.

"I can't say that it does, no. The sonority of it pleases me enough."

She nods, and you would have liked to continue that line of discussion, ask her how someone so interesting feels having a common noun for a name, how she feels about roses, whether she favors orchids over them as they seem to have so much more in common with her, but apparently introduction time is over and getting down to business time has begun. Your professor explains, very briefly, that you are to create an outfit inspired by your model, like a visual representation of the impression they leave in you. It sounds vague and slightly too whimsical, to which there are some barely muffled groans coming from some corners of the room, but feasible. You glance at her profile with the corners of your eyes and she grins without looking your way. Feasible, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rose strikes me a bit as a virgo as well. what do you guys think?


	3. to make arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drawing is hard and nobody understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pretty pleased with myself regarding my update speed  
> i mean, it's still slow build (very much so) and the chapters are short, but at least there's something new every day

You have used the same pencil for every project ever since you started fashion school. It does not have any exceptional qualities, neither in technical terms nor in sentimentality, and it's as aesthetically bland as pencils come. Still, it has served you well for years and you find it something of a lucky item.

You also find it completely useless in sketching Rose Lalonde.

This is incredibly stupid. It's supposed to be a simple sketch, a skeleton of a concept upon which you will layer your own ideas and thoughts. Drawing isn't your craft, at any rate, merely a tool you employ while working on that in which you truly flourish, and getting aggravated over something so menial is just not a thing you do.

Except for the part that it is, of course it is, because it's not menial at all, is it? You are supposed to be inspired by her, to capture her essence and translate it into a work of your own, and the graphite gray is entirely too dry and straightforward to represent her with any verisimilitude. Watercolors, maybe, black and purple watercolors staining the paper unevenly in a contrast-filled flow of shapes, like a deep ocean or a stormy sky, dangerous and dark and endless. But then again maybe not, maybe light chalk in a paper not too dark, soft and slightly cold like an early spring afternoon spent pressing flowers in old books. It should feel as though you're talking about two different people, but it doesn't, not really. It could be argued that you don't know enough about her to have an opinion at all, which is a theory not without its merits.

Well, she did give you her phone number yesterday. You reach out and take your phone, open a new message, and spend three and a half minutes staring at nothing wondering what to write. You could ask her for all sorts of raw data - blood type, birthday, favorite movie - but you fail to see how any of that would help, so you place the phone back on the table. You then pick it up again, write an amiable greeting, erase it letter by letter, put the phone away once more. You pick it up a third time, frustrated and flustered, type in your e-mail with a generic message informing her to contact you through it should your cellphone be unavailable, decide against sending even this, and find yourself about to turn the damn thing off at once when a text from her appears on your inbox.

"Good morning, Kanaya."

Look at that, she makes it look so simple. Should you answer right away? Or would that come across as desperate? Wait what are you even thinking this isn't a concept apliable to this situation at all. She's a school project, remember, not a romantic interest. Where did this even come from, honestly.

"Oh Hello Rose"

She doesn't answer instantly, which gives you plenty of time to overthink every single detail of this. Your answer was way too casual, wasn't it, now she's thinking she shouldn't contact you for a while lest you assume you two are becoming _friends_ or something. You knew you shouldn't have answered right away, you just knew it. Your cellphone buzzes again in the middle or your internal monologue.

"Should you find yourself without previous arrangements for the day, would you care to join me for lunch? There is a crêperie I have wanted to visit for some time now, and your company would be greatly appreciated."

Oh. That was... unexpected. Good, definitely good, great even, but unexpected nonetheless. You ponder how to answer long enough that she mistakes your silence for a refusal.

"Perhaps that was too presumptuous of me. I apologize."

What. No. No no no no no.

"No I Am The One At Fault Here  
It Should Not Have Taken Me This Long To Compose A Reply  
And Your Invitation Was In No Way Presumptuous  
I Would Love To Have Lunch With You Actually That Sounds Lovely"

"I stand corrected, then. Is one in the afternoon an acceptable hour for you? I can forward you the address and meet you there."

"It Is Perfectly Acceptable Yes  
I Look Forward To It"

It's roughly ten-thirty in the morning now, which should give you more than enough time to get ready - not that you need too much time to get ready, mind you, being fashionable in no way interferes with your punctuality nor has it ever done so. Still you rush, more out of nerves than of necessity, and miss the succint "As do I." that appears briefly on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is the first date kinda  
> on another note, i didn't give their texts color because texts don't really have that option  
> if you feel it'd make the reading easier, please let me know


	4. not a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crêpes and subtlety.

The crêperie is spacious and bustling with character, all high ceilings and framed posters, and usually you'd find yourself making mental notes of every pretty detail that managed to catch your eye -usually, yes, but not today, since today it actually took you some five minutes to even notice the place had windows. It's not that you're distracted per se, it's just.

You think Rose might be flirting with you?

That manages to sound silly and arrogant all at once, since you don't even know whether she's interested in girls at all, and it's really likely you're just projecting, you know for a fact that's something you do, delusional as you tend to be. You know all that. That knowledge doesn't help you in the slightest.

She had taken you by the hand upon entering, which seemed like a logical course of action at the time, seeing as the restaurant was very crowded. She then kept hold of your hand as you both found a table, fingers looser now as she turned it palm to palm with hers, and smiled at you with that same smile that was more eyes than lips.

"I was about to liken the color of your nails to that of your eyes, but looking at them now I realize that would have been far too crass a comparison."

See, this is what you mean; it sounds slightly as if she is complimenting you, but it also sounds slightly like she's just stating an observable fact, and because this is a very pointless line of thought you decide to abandon it. Her own nails are perfectly manicured but kept clear, you notice distractedly, but most of your attention is turned toward your green nail polish.

"Do you think so? I've always found the shades to be quite similar."

It's why you bought it, really. Maybe it is a more than a bit cliché for people with light eyes to collect items that match their irises, but you find the effect visually pleasing enough not to care. She hums as if in thought, raises your hand closer to herself, brushes some of your bangs from your face and wow okay there is a whole lot of touching going on right now.

"Hm, no. That is not to say your taste in nail polish is in any way subpar, rather that a bottle of manufactured color - lovely though as it may be - couldn't hope to replic the vivid gradients of its real life counterpart."

There is that smile again, quicker and closer than last time, and then she excuses herself to place her order. This intermission seems like a great chance to try and regain control over your respiratory system, so you get on that. You like to think of yourself as a calm, composed person, but it's difficult to retain such an image when your heart is beating so hard you can feel your entire cheast thrumming.

Lunch itself is a quiet affair, both of you too polite for it not to be so, but it is also highly educational. You learn she sits with her ankles crossed and back ramrod straight, that she cuts her food with her left hand, that she licks her lips after every bite. You learn the print of her lips on the rim of the glass, black fjords of lipstick in a crescent shape, and the three light freckles beneath her right eye. You also learn that the back of her hand is very soft from where it sometimes brushes against yours in the middle of the table.

She looks at you amusedly, like she somehow knows your thoughts - which, now that you think about it, is not entirely implausible. You should probably stop staring at her now.

"I feel like I have been staring at you for a very long time, I'm very sorry for that."

"You have. I will have to ask you not to apologize though, it's very flattering."

You were not aware that the back of your neck was capable of heating up so quickly. The more you know.

"My lessons start in half an hour," She says after a beat as she rises daint and swift, pale hair hanging around her face in a way that makes you wish you could paint, "so I'm afraid I should go now."

"Oh. Yes, of course, I wouldn't want to keep you."

It is a small wonder how her eyebrows can be so expressive when they're roughly the same shade as her skin.

"Wouldn't you?"

You stop. She smiles.

"Today has been wonderful, Kanaya. I hope we can arrange similar meetings in the future."

An accurate summary of your day is that she's lovely and far too bright and you're already in so much trouble.

"I'd like nothing more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kanaya thinks way too much poor dear  
> also hey my chapters are getting slightly longer


	5. drawing board drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First leg of the project.

You sit in your atelier and stretch your back, trying to coerce your vertebrae to return to their proper places after having spent some three hours in a rather unelegant forward arch. If before even a single idea sounded like a wistful dream, you felt now as though you might draw for days without running out of designs you'd like to put on paper. You breathe deeply, arrange your sketches in a ring around your spot on the floor (organized chromatically for better visualization), and think.

There are sixteen drawings in total. You need to pick one.

How some people are able to make decisions is a knowledge that will forever elude you; for all you know, dark magic is probably involved. It takes you half an hour just to slim the number down to thirteen, for crying out loud. Seeing as this is getting nowhere fast - wait, no, not fast, make that torturously slow - you decide that tea is in order. Hopefully there's still some kukicha left, as you really shouldn't be ingesting any more caffeine right now.

A second opinion would be very nice, you think as the water boils. Not from a classmate, not at this point, and certainly not from a teacher. A friend, then. Let's see. Karkat would give you an honest opinion, though you did promise to stop pestering him with things he knows nothing about. Eridan would probably give you a useful opinion, but that would require talking to him, so is it really worth it? Feferi would be delighted to help, bless her heart, but her style is so dissimilar from your own you doubt it would do you much good.

You decide to stop pretending to yourself that it is not Rose's the second opinion you want and take all of the sketches to the scanner before you have time to give this idea any second thoughts. With all files properly uploaded and attached, you sit in front of your computer and start typing.

"Dear Rose"

No, wait, this isn't a letter.

"Hello Rose"

It's not a text message either, Kanaya, Jesus.

"Rose"

That's... better, you guess. It's more straightforward than you'd like, but at least it sounds neither terribly personal nor terribly _im_ personal.

"Rose

Regarding My Fashion Project Of Which You Are Part  
I Have Thought Of A Few Concepts And Created These Designs To Illustrate Them  
Please Keep In Mind They Are Rough Original Sketches And Are Therefore Subject To Changes  
In Fact They Will Most Likely Be Altered In Some Way Before The Conclusion  
It Is Extremely Uncommon To Keep A Design Entirely Unedited During Its Creation Process  
I Myself Have Never Done So"

Why are you discussing your creative process when you're supposed to be asking for an opinion? You should probably take some writing classes. How to Get to the Goddamn Point 101.

"Anyway  
As Of Now I Have Thirteen Options And The Need To Narrow That Number Down To  
Well One  
Your Opinon On The Matter Would Be Greatly Appreciated  
If You Could Have A Look At The Files I Have Attached And See Which One Stands Out To You  
And Please Do Not Hesitate In Saying So If You Do Not Care For Any Of Them  
This Project Is First and Foremost About You After All  
Thank You In Advance

Kanaya Maryam"

You close the window as soon as you press send to avoid reading through it again, years of experience telling you no good would have come out of that, and go busy yourself with the dishes. You wouldn't say you are a shy person by any measure, but you can't help but feel very self-conscious at times, especially when talking to someone so interesting. If you were being a bit more honest, you'd admit you just find it hard to talk to people whom you are trying to impress; as it is, you aren't really feeling honest enough to deal with the implications of that, so you'll happily ignore it for now.

She has already replied by the time you come back, and you take a deep breath or five before opening it.

"Dear Kanaya,

Before delving into the topic on which you have required my assistance, I must say I am very impressed with the sheer speed of your work. While it would be terribly presumptuous of me to assume my involvement in this project had any part in this, however slight, it still heartens me to know I was able to successfully inspire you.

That being said, and I sincerely hope you not to mistake these next lines for flattery, I cannot bring myself to choose. Each of your designs is lovelier still than its predecessor, all delicateness without frailty, and wearing whichever one would be positively delightful. To be perfectly honest, the greatest reason for which I find myself unable to make a decision is likely the knowledge that selecting one would deprive the others of ever coming to fruition.

Still, it feels disingenuous replying your request with something that can hardly be considered an answer. I believe the third dress, knee-length and lacy, would be my choice.

Love,

Rose Lalonde."

Oh, but you could read her writing for _days_. Though the patterns are quite similar to her manner of speaking, seeing the words arranged together makes the composition seem to flow even better. But that is neither here nor there; what matters right now is that you have your project, and work can finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like kanaya would make very feminine designs, like valentino meets zuhair murad meets elie saab  
> but she would probably have shrines to stella de libero and ziad ghanem in her closet because they're so theatrical


	6. by any measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second stage of crafting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains mild almost nudity  
> as in there is underwear in sight

Though you are not one for self-praise, there are certain qualities you possess that you find somewhat praiseworthy. You are punctual, for instance, organized, polite, and above all, you take great pride in being very professional. This is your future you're talking about, after all, your dream, and you are far too conscious of this to act in any manner as to endanger it.

That's all very nice and well in theory, but sadly practice ends up differing quite a bit from it. Mostly because theory does not involve Rose disrobing in front of you.

For measurements. That's why she's taking her clothes off. You know that. Obviously. You had even offered to step out while she got ready - it would have been only proper, really, you're still not sure why you didn't just do that - but she had just smiled and asked whether that would make her any less naked in the end, when you'd actually have to touch her, so you stayed silent and you stayed put.

She starts with her shoes, pushing them off of her feet with her toes and placing them neatly by the wall. Her belt follows soon after, coiled around itself like a snake on top of the table. Then her shirt, button by button, down her shoulders, down her back, and oh.

"Is that an octopus?"

It is very clearly an octopus, stark black tentacles writhing down one side of her waist and a bulbous head at her ribs, but the question still feels necessary. She looks at you over a pale shoulder, glances down, smiles.

"The prettiest memento of teenage rebellion I could hope for. Do you like it?"

"It's stunning." It makes your fingers itch to trace the contours tentacle by tentacle. "Did it hurt?"

"It did." Her fingers are short and thin splayed over the tinted skin. "I just didn't mind."

Her voice sounds airy, her eyes distant. It's gone in barely a second, and her hands go back to the task of undressing immediately, but it's still enough to make your throat constrict. She folds her clothes primly, shirt and skirt and stockings ( _stockings_ , sweet Jesus), and looks up at you.

"Will this suffice or should I remove the rest of my garments?"

Someone less professional than you might have had a hard time in this situation, such as not being able to speak, or breathe, or continuing to exist, or not absconding the hell out of there while putting more distance between the two of you still seemed like the most logical course of action. Boy, you sure are glad you're a professional.

"No, this is perfect, thank you. Unless it's a padded bra? Although it doesn't look like one..."

"It isn't."

"Then this will do perfectly." You just said it's perfect stop being creepy. "I mean, it's okay to remain as you are. No further undressing is required."

She raises one eyebrow but says nothing, and you decide that saying nothing is exactly what you should be doing as well, so you take the measuring tape and revel in the small amount of composure you regain just from this. You measure her neck and bust and waist with clinical detachment, - well, almost, but your hands aren't trembling noticeably, and that's pretty much the same - her hips, her legs, her arms and wrists. It's a fast job, even with how hieroglyphic your handwriting turns out, so you don't really have time to ponder the texture of her skin beneath your hands or anything like that, but you do have plenty of time to catch her perfume and it throws you off for a second.

"Kanaya?"

You shake yourself, look at her, and realize you've been holding her arm for likely too long. She makes no move to put any distance between you, just stares at you in thought and mild amusement. As per usual.

"Oh." You drop her arm gently, very gently, but remain where you are, and then again, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I was just trying to guess your perfume, to no avail. It seems familiar, somehow, but I just can't seem to place it."

She seems to think it over for a second, pushes some strands of light hair behind one ear and leans closer.

"Does this help?"

She's the kind of person who should come with a health warning, really. You breathe in deeply, trying to sort it out. There's something floral, for sure, and also something woodier, heavier. Your hair grazes her shoulder. She shudders.

"I'm afraid I still can't say, and I don't suppose you will tell me."

There is a knock on the door reminding you that measuring time is over, and she steps back with her hands behind her back and a crooked grin.

"I'd rather have you find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> power outages broke my streak of daily updates darn it  
> also rose totally has an octopus tattoo don't even try to deny it


	7. slowly but surely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kanaya makes some progress.

The lace is delicate, too delicate, and it takes you hours to make even an iota of progress. It was early morning when you first started sewing, it's now three in the afternoon, you barely have the torso done and you can't remember the last time you ate. Your neck feels as though it might never move again. You are at least eighty percent sure you have developed tendinitis.

You are already so very much in love with this dress. The buttons trail down the back in a line of silver dots on sheer fabric, the lace flowers wrap themselves gently down the spine. It's going to be ethereal and coy and so lovely you won't be able to stand looking at it for too long, exactly as your inspiration for it.

And if this line of thought isn't clear proof that you're in dire need of a break, you don't know what is. Take-out is always a viable option, sure, but you've been cooped up inside your atelier practically since sunrise, and by now your body craves the sunlight almost as much as the nourishment. Is anything even open right now? Lunch hours are likely over by now, but it's nowhere near dinner hours yet and urgh. Wait, isn't today Saturday? Things tend to stay open endlessly on weekends, right? Oh, Chinese would be wonderful right now, hopefully the Chinese place is open.

You wash your face and hands, put your shoes back on, pick up your purse, pause. You could go on your own, sure, it's what you usually do. You've always found spending time by yourself to be calming and pleasant, and it's not that you feel the need for company per se, it's rather that. Well. Okay. Rose is very pleasant company, and you haven't seen her for some days now. There.

Her phone rings once, twice, and you're almost hanging up already, you should have just texted her, calling is so invasive and personal lots of people hate talking on the phone Kanaya you know this - then she answers and you stop thinking for a bit.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. How are you, Kanaya?"

"Hello, Rose. I am very well, thank you for inquiring. How about you?"

"With full knowledge of how crass it'd sound, I'm still tempted to reply 'better now'." You wonder briefly if you've always been this easy to fluster, but stop once you realize neither a positive nor a negative response to that will make you feel any better. "May I help you in any way?"

"Actually, yes. Are you busy at this moment?"

Your heart flutters against your ribcage in the two or so seconds that it takes her to reply.

"Not particularly. Did you want to meet me?"

"I did."

 -------------

 She meets you four blocks down from the station and the first thing you notice is that her lips aren't painted black today, the pink pale enough to likely be natural. Logic dictates it should divert attention from them - perhaps to her eyes, long lashed and violet - but you find it has the exact opposite effect of drawing your eyes in almost magnetically. It's only when they stretch in a familiar smile that you come to your senses; or, to be more precise, when they retain said smile while she leans in and presses them against your cheek, quick and soft.

You blink. She grins.

"It's good to see you, Kanaya."

And then you notice for the first time that there is color in her cheeks as well, a layer of light pink high on her cheekbones that matches the shade of her untinted lips almost to a tee, just enough to knock the breath clear out of you, so you lean down and kiss her flushed face in return simply because it's impossible not to at this point.

"It's good to see you as well, Rose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was short and i'm sorry for that  
> but next chapter is their second kinda date so there's that to look forward to


	8. cinder block gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very very sorry for taking this long. real life is being kind of unbearable.

Your favorite book as a child was The Secret Garden, specifically a 1985 hardcover edition that had been your mother's and that she'd read to you on stormy nights when neither of you could sleep; you never got around to watching the movie adaptations, too fond of the written version to have room in your heart for any of them, but you've read the story so many times you could probably retell it by heart at any time.

So when the breeze ruffles your dress and Rose comments quietly that you are making yourself stronger by fighting with the wind it's enough to make you falter for a second.

"Secret Garden?"

It is, you know it is, first page of the fifth chapter. She stops, stares at you for a second or two, smiles even brighter than usual, resumes walking.

"It was the first book I have ever read, and still is one of my favorites."

"Mine as well! One of my favorites, that is, not the first I've ever read. Though, thinking back now, I'm not certain what was the first, so it might as well have been it? The simple idea of a hidden garden starting a healing process in everyone that came in contact with it is wonderful enough to merit reading it countless times, and I've always been so very fond of the descriptions of the flowers blooming inside the stone walls, I couldn't possiby put it into words."

Not that you aren't trying, clearly. You really need to get the rambling thing under control. It's not as bad as it used to be, thank goodness, but the words are still a bit hard to keep in check sometimes.

"I'm sorry," you say as the two of you enter the restaurant, "I'm afraid I don't know when to stop talking when it comes to things that I'm fond of."

The restaurant itself is golden in color and cramped with every kind of Chinese trinkets one could think of: Chinese umbrellas, Chinese hats, “traditional” Chinese clothing, chopsticks, statues of dragons, pandas, tigers, all animals of the Chinese zodiac. It smells like a mix between sesame oil and jasmine tea. There is some kind of Asian traditional music playing in the background. Basically, it's pretty much like the whole Chinatown was compressed into a single-story building between a flower shop and a drugstore.

"Don't apologize. To get excited about something to the point you're physically unable to keep from sharing your love for it is a wonderful characteristic to have."

And she is so lovely it's borderline unfair, honestly. You think you might have smiled in response, you can't be sure, your face kind of does things on its own without proper notification to the conscious part of your brain a lot.

As for lunch, it's much as it was last time, but not quite; she seems a lot closer than last time somehow, even with the table twice as large as the crêperie's between the two of you, like her hand always brushes yours somehow no matter what you reach for or your feet knock against hers every time you as much as fidget. She seems even paler against the violently colorful background of gold and red, but her presence is somehow larger in such close quarters.

You feel lighter by the end of it, the knots of your back either gone or forgotten, and you walk her back to the station talking about things that don't matter. Her hand still brushes against yours even now and she talks to you while looking straight ahead, her hair not quite covering her always amused eyes.

"I feel we don't do this nearly enough, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, definitely. You're great company, we ought to this more often."

She smiles and... well, hesitates is really the only word for it, though it seems weird to associate it with her in any given context. The look she throws your way is like she might want to say something, her hand twitching at her side. Then she sighs, shoulders falling, smiles quietly, and pulls you closer by the hand to press a kiss against your cheek.

You are now at least eighty percent sure of two things: the first is that you'll never come close to understanding Rose; the second is that you're in so, so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really like ethnic restaurants where the owners play up the ethnicity to attract hipstery white people  
> also rose was totally going to kiss her but she decided against it because kanaya is only starting to get it


	9. china for china

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanaya comes to terms with some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow that's a lot of kudos  
> i'll have to think of something to thank you guys with

She starts texting you throughout the day after that, not so much in a continuous string of conversation as in seemingly arbitrary scraps of thoughts, and every last one of them brings one, two, three smiles you try and fail to suppress. There are book recommendations and analyses interwoven with pictures of the first corymbs her hydrangea bushes are just starting to grow, there are casual remarks on her day entwined with psychological assessments of people in her vicinity, and every once in a while there's a brief reminder to take a break and get something to eat, Kanaya, you cannot hope to finish this project while planning on dying of malnourishment barely halfway through it.

All in all, it takes you roughly fifty-six messages and four days to come to terms with the fact you're completely smitten.

You've had your suspicions for a while now, of course. Infatuations are something of a composite of feelings, born when someone comes along on whom there's both some characteristics with which you identify and some characteristics you lack and admire, and that definition is almost verbatim how you're felt about her since day one; what confirmation you still needed was to soothe something between self-defense and cowardice that refused to acknowledge any feelings you weren't sure were requited.

Except now you are sure. Mostly. Sure as you can be, at any rate. They don't seem unwelcome, in any case, not if her continuous flirting is any indication, and that's probably as good an answer as you're ever getting from her.

So you invite her for tea. It's borderline preposterous that you hadn't yet, really. You consider calling, but quickly discard that idea as you fear your diction might be in a subpar status due to reasons that are in no way related to nerves; instead, when she texts you something about constellations and mythology, you finish your reply with "Incidentally Would You Care To Join Me For Tea Sometime". You then proceed to oscillate between checking compulsively for replies and avoiding looking at your cellphone altogether for several minutes. Her reply, when it finally comes, catches you a bit off-guard, seeing as you were busy severly overthinking this delay in communication.

"I apologize for the tardiness of my reply - prosaic though as it is, my cellphone ran out of battery before I could reply. Yes, joining you for tea is exactly the sort of thing I would care to do. When and where should I meet you?"

"I Have No Preferences Regarding Time  
My Schedule For The Day Is Blissfully Empty  
As For Where"

You pause for a moment, inhale, exhale, force yourself to continue.

"As For Where  
I Have A Rather Wide Selection Of Tea Types Here  
And My Purple Geraniums Are Blooming Quite a Bit I Think You Would Like To See Them  
Basically What I Am Saying Is My Place Is The One I Had In Mind"

It's astounding how quickly you regret what you just finished typing. There is something about suggesting your apartment as a meeting place after she'd already agreed to join you that feels very dishonest somehow, like you somehow used social conventions and her own politeness to force her to come over. Vriska would have been proud.

"Tea and geraniums, how could I refuse? I only need your address and some time to make arrangements, not more than an hour or so."

She arrives precisely fifty-seven minutes later, a plastic bag in her hands (chocolate cake, she explains while offering it to you, so black tea would probably be the best option, unless you'd prefer something else?) and her bangs pulled back, pressing a kiss to your face in what is already becoming her usual greeting. It's all so lovely and so very domestic you find yourself overwhelmed with fondness, so much so it takes you a second to notice you've put your arms around her in a loose hug. You then step back, hands on her shoulders, and smile warmly at an increasingly pink Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my headcanon is that rose doesn't know shit about tea and googled "what goes well with black tea" to impress kanaya  
> oh, ps: http://zodiacsociety.tumblr.com/post/27440690312  
> who do you think is kanaya's roomate?


	10. pink to red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter about jealousy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://s29.postimg.org/4bo1uoj93/rosemary_2_0.jpg  
> this was supposed to be a thank you gift for 5O kudos  
> i was a bit late  
> so this is now a thank you gift for 6O kudos  
> thank you, every single one of you <3

She smells like cloves.

She is both tiny and endless, sitting by the window with a faux-gilded cup of the Keemun you may or may not have been saving for a special occasion, and she smells like cloves.

Well, to be more precise, she actually smells of those flowers - stock, you think they're called, though that's a terrible name for a flower, really - that used to grow by the side of your parent's house and would leave the whole kitchen smelling of what your mother likened to cloves all throughout summer. It's both flowery and woody and being finally able to put a name to it feels like getting rid of an itch right between your shoulder blades.

Your blissfulness might also be influenced by the fact your roommate isn't home right now. You don't dislike her, mind you - not anymore, at any rate - but you are willing to bet both your kidneys that, had she been present, she would find some way to embarass you as thoroughly as humanly possible in front of Rose and proceed to spend the next several years reminding you of that. That's just how she is, you guess.

Her physical absence, however, doesn't seem to be enough to keep her from making herself known, if the bright blue post-it note your guest is now holding daintly is any indication.

"Unless I've somehow earned the sobriquet 'prissypants' without ever meeting this Vriska, I'm afraid I've read something not addressed to me. I apologize."

It sounds nothing like an apology and everything like a mildly amused question.

"I think it's fair to assume it was hardly some secret note, considering it was left lying around when she knew I'd have company. How rude is it?"

"I wouldn't say it's rude. It was actually quite thoughtful, how she - what was it? Ah, yes, 'made herself scarce' as to avoid 'getting in the way of your date'. May I ask how long have you known each other?"

You spend some five seconds hyperventilating in silence over the fact she did not deny this was a date and another five striving to look as though you were not hyperventilating at all what a silly notion honestly. She spends all of those ten seconds trying to merge one of her pale eyebrows with her equally pale hairline.

"... Kanaya?"

"Hm?"

"..."

"Oh, right, I'm sorry." God, but how long had it been? Vriska feels like such a permanent fixture in your life, it isn't easy pinpointing a time she was not present. "Since... middle school, I believe?"

"Ah." She stirs her tea, sips, smiles. "That sounds nice."

The word sounds wrong somehow. Nice. It is a perfectly adequate word for your situation, of course, but it just... it feels like it doesn't belong in her mouth, to be honest.

"Does it?"

"Is it not?"

"You are dodging my question."

"Am I?"

You hold eye contact for a moment or several and then she sighs, one of the straps of her dress falling down one shoulder.

"I am. I apologize."

"That sort of recalcitrant behavior is very unusual for you. Is anything the matter?"

"Just myself, I'm afraid. It seems I don't deal as well with jealousy as I'd previously believed."

What.

She makes an inquisitive noise. You might have said that out loud. You are not certain. You are not certain of anything anymore.

"Is it that surprising?"

There's no waver in her voice, no quiet self-doubt, and you suddenly feel very silly. She's strong and sure and lovely, and she looks you in the eye even as her hand trembles just enough to make her teacup clink against the saucer. You can feel your heart beat on the back of your throat when you place said teacup on the table and take said trembling hand on yours instead.

"I'd say it's more unnecessary, really."

Strong, sure, lovely, and very very pink, the color spreading like ink on water down her neck. Her fingers find their way through yours and she smiles in a way that makes you hurt she's so radiant.

"You know, this would be a great setting for a first kiss."

You prented to think it over. She tugs you closer. Her lips are warm and dry, bittersweet from the tea, and your lipstick tints them a light red around the middle. You part, forehead to forehead, and giggle into each other as the sun sets.

She was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way longer than i had hoped, i'm very very sorry  
> also hey look vriska


	11. epilogue: flower pressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final considerations.

The rain falls hard and rhythmic on the hollow zinc roofing of the fashion school cafeteria, the noise ringing low on your ears as you drown yourself in a dog-eared edition of Dracula. It's your project's due date, and if you're gripping the pages hard enough to feel the hard cover bend beneath your fingertips well that's nobody's business now is it.

Rose thinks you're being ridiculous, naturally. She laughs fondly and kisses your temple, black lace dress fluttering gently around her thighs like wings of a butterfly, and she's so lovely sometimes her existence feels like a dull ache on your chest.

You've been together for three weeks and four days now. You don't know how her family situation got to be what it is, why her relationship with her mother is so terse, why she sometimes looks so far away she's borderline intangible. You don't know what her teenage rebellion years entailed, if she has any interest in knowing her father, how old she was when she learned how to tie her shoes.

What you do know is the shape of the bridge of her nose against the curve of your neck, the softer smile she has when she just woke up, how she likes her coffee black but her tea with sugar and milk. You know she likes depressive psychological movies and trashy romance novels. You know her feet are always cold.

Most importantly, you know you love her, and you're pretty certain she loves you as well.

She takes your hand, fingers intertwining with yours easily, leads you into the classroom with a smile. Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you have never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you dearly everyone for accompanying this story <3  
> this turned out to be much more popular than i anticipated whoa  
> this epilogue was mostly to wrap things up more neatly, but it was also a thank you for all the wonderful feedback i got from this~  
> you guys were amazing, thank you very much!  
> i hope to see you again soon


End file.
